


Breaking Point

by BridgeGoblin



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bad Ending, Character Death, Death, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeGoblin/pseuds/BridgeGoblin
Summary: Fighting for Noxus is a constant stress test. It bends your strength, your soul, your will to live, until you feel it can't take anymore. Weaker men break upon that, but the strong rise from it. Forged anew. Ever stronger.But everything has a breaking point. Even the men propped up as Noxian might in it's purest form. Everything has to give, eventually.
Relationships: Darius & Draven (League of Legends)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to @falloutbart :)
> 
> The art featured in this fic can be found here on twitter. Go support Bart he's great!  
> https://twitter.com/FallOutBart/status/1343732666684870664?s=19

Draven descends into the dungeons below the Reckoner's pit and with each passing step dread builds in his chest. It's funny, he thinks to himself, he's never felt this nervous about coming down here before. Prisoners spit and jeer at him as he passes their bars, not bothering to give them any time of day. They might as well be insects to him, minor annoyances buzzing about the dungeons. Just distractions.

He continues his descent until he reaches the deepest cells. Where high priority prisoner's are kept while they await judgement in the pit. It's dark down here, no sunlight filters through and so all he has are the torches on the walls. Draven shivers, and he tosses it up to the chill in the air. Not his nerves. He's just seeing a prisoner. Just like any other.

Draven slows to a stop in front of his target cell. Inside is a bulky figure chained to the wall of the dungeon. As Draven approaches with his own torch in hand, the orange light washes over the prisoner who turns to meet his gaze. Darius. He looks small, forced into a seated position in the dirt. He's dressed in rags, none of his military regalia in sight. "Thought you'd never come see me." Darius says nonchalantly. He shifts his position, the manacles clanging as he does. Draven winces, not wanting to admit he's been avoiding coming down here.

"You look like shit." Draven says, and he means it. His brother doesn't look like he's eaten or slept in days. He grits his teeth, wondering what grunt he's going to have to sink an axe into for this slight.

The comment manages to break Darius's stony facade for a moment. His lips break into a wide grin and he chuckles lowly. "I wonder why." 

_Why?_ That's something Draven wonders too. Why has he been sentenced to this fate? What could the Hand of Noxus have done to attract Swain's ire so intensely that he's now here? Draven wants to ask, to interrogate his brother for answers, but for once in his life he's lost his voice. So he stands there in silence, feeling that cold he felt earlier seemingly envelope him. It curls up around his neck like a noose, choking him so he can't speak. He clenches his fists and grits his teeth as he stands still, his knuckles turning bone white and his arms trembling.

"Where's your bravado gone, brother? I expected your usual showboating." Darius's voice breaks the spell that seemingly fell over Draven and his eyes snap back into focus. "It's just another day at work for you."

"My usual days at work don't have me facing The Hand of Noxus." Draven replies, feeling the bitterness in his throat as he says his brother's title. The man he's lived in the shadow of his whole life has come to _his_ arena. And he will probably steal the show too. The people _adore_ Darius. Traitor or not they'd rather see the hand victorious, not the executioner. And if Draven is honest, he agrees with them. His brother shouldn't be here.

Darius scoffs. "I've never seen you like this. So ready for defeat." Draven doesn't respond. He usually would deny it, to boast about himself, to hype himself up. But there was no denying this any longer. Not here, not to Darius. He’s always been the better fighter and Draven the better showman. They've sparred with each other enough for him to know how this ends for him. Darius leans forward, going as far as the bonds would let him, before speaking again. "No matter the results, the other must continue on. Agreed?"

Draven rolls his eyes. "You'll be fine without me Darius, you always have been."

"If you win. If I'm killed. You need to continue on." Darius presses, his dark brown eyes meet Draven's bright green ones. Darius's gaze is unflinching, his brow furrowed with determination. The icy cold from before shoots through his veins as he feels like he's staring into the jaws of The Wolf as he meets those eyes.

Draven looks down at his feet, breaking the staring contest, looking at anywhere but Darius. "Yeah. Okay." The answer is enough for Darius it seems.

"Good. See you in your arena."

* * *

Draven walks into the Reckoner's Pit to the applause of the Noxian audience. The bleachers are packed to the brim for the main event. The Hand of Noxus versus the Grand Executioner. A fight no one even a month ago would have dreamt of being reality. The late afternoon sun washes over Draven, the warmth tingling his exposed skin as sand from the arena begins to cake to his skin. The familiar chills he felt from the dungeon wash over him despite the heat bearing down on him, and he can't deny it any longer. He's afraid. 

He raises his spinning axes and the crowd erupts into more cheers. It doesn't matter if he's afraid. It's showtime. He swallows the lump in his throat as he eyes the stands before finding the VIP he was looking for. Jericho Swain is seated comfortably in the VIP box, seats Draven has often sat in beside the Grand General. A mix of anger and confusion whirls in his gut as he stares him down, wondering what the Grand General is planning here. Why have his right hand man fight his brother to the inevitable death? Is it all part of some grand scheme? He's trusted Swain for years now, he's the reason Draven began to carve his own little spot for himself in Noxus after all. And now that very same man is tearing it down. But for what Draven isn't sure.

He doesn't have long to ponder, because the floor to the arena is opening. The steel plates beneath the sand slide open as a platform is raised via pulleys up to the ground floor. There, chained to a metal post, is his brother. Even now, still clothed in rags and chained with steel, the man is a behemoth. A hulking force of pure might. The crowd roars in excitement as Darius is lifted into the ring. He remains unmoving, almost statue-like as the steel plate clicks into place, the ground shaking as the dust settles from the machinery.

Draven breathes deeply, smelling the hot sweat and blood of the fights from earlier as he begins to circle the outskirts of the ring. "Welcome one and all! The main event is about to begin! My brother, the traitor, will be fighting for his life tonight against myself. Draven! Your Glorious Executioner! And may I remind you, I have never lost a fight!" Draven's voice bellows as he circles Darius like a shark in the water. His demeanor is a complete 180 from earlier, exuding confidence as the crowd hangs on his every word. This is where Draven shines. Darius watches his every move, his expression unmoving and unreadable as usual. 

"I could, of course, end him here while he's helpless. But where is the fun in that?" Draven reaches his destination, the weapons rack. He peruses the weapons, making a show of it as he inspects each blade until he arrives at Darius's signature axe. He had made sure it would be here today. His hands trace the fine craftsmanship, admiring the wickedness of the blade that surely will bring about Draven's own demise. His fingers linger on the cold steel, wondering how badly it’ll hurt when it’s sunken in his skin. He shakes off the dreary thoughts before turning to face his brother and forces a smile, he has to put on a good show after all. "Let's give a good fight before you meet Wolf's jaws!" He exclaims as he sends the axe whirling through the air, embedding it directly in the chains and freeing his brother. 

The crowd is going wild as Darius finally moves from his spot. His hands clutch the handle of the axe before hoisting it to rest atop his broad shoulders. He stands there, waiting for him, and it sends a pang through Draven's heart. Memories of fighting by his brother's side race through his head, the two side by side fighting for Noxus. Sweat pools in his palms as he grips his spinning axes. This is not the time for sentimentality. It's time for the show.

Draven makes the first move, sending one of his spinning axes hurtling through the air towards his brother. Darius side steps, moving now with incredible speed you wouldn't expect from a man of his size. The axe embeds itself behind Darius, not even close to the man as he charges forward, the massive hulking man now barreling at Draven. 

Draven lets the crowd’s cheers egg him onward, fueling his energy as his legs carry him towards his brother. He has to make his last night here a good show. It'd be disappointing if it was a slaughter. Darius's axe collides with his own, the sound of metal clanging against metal rips through the air. They're so close now, their faces just inches apart as their blades hold against one another. Draven can see the details of his brother's face, the scars and wrinkles, the drops of sweat sliding down his brow, the coldness in his eyes. Draven isn't sure how he can do this, how he can remain so calm here. 

Draven can feel his arms straining as Darius begins to overpower him. Draven doesn't win in pure tests of strength, not against Darius, so he shoves off and pivots around the back of him. He needs to get back to the axe he threw. 

Darius growls, it's a primal sound, something that would send lesser men cowering as he spins wide with his axe. It nearly grazes Draven, only just centimeters from licking against his skin as he slides backwards to where his first axe is embedded in the ground. His hand grips the handle tightly and he whirls the blade in his hand. 

Darius doesn't give him a moment to rest, he's on him in almost an instant, his axe colliding with the ground with a sickening thud, the sand kicking up around them as if a sandstorm is brewing. Draven is lucky he had sidestepped the hit, it leaves Darius open. Draven goes to capitalize on the hit, bringing his spinning axe down in an effort to land a decisive blow against the larger man, but he hesitates, stopping his axe just a hairs length from his skin.

That moment’s hesitation is all Darius needs. His elbow collides with Draven’s nose, sending him careening backwards as blood gushes from it. “Do _not_ show me weakness!” Darius bellows as Draven staggers back. The crowd cheers as the first real blow is landed. They hunger for bloodshed, something Draven is usually eager to provide, but not today. 

Blood is running down Draven’s lips, the copper taste infiltrates his mouth before he can wipe it away. He can feel how badly his hands are shaking as he gets his balance back. Darius is waiting for him, not taking the moment of weakness to cut him down. “You could have killed me just now. You getting soft?” Draven taunts, knowing it’s hypocritical of him but he doesn’t care. There’s some desperate part of him that needs to _know_ . Darius has been so cold, ever since they were kids. He never expected any kind of mercy, least of all from the man known to guillotine those who so much as _thought_ of deserting.

“Hardly. Just want to make our last fight a good one.” Darius says. He doesn’t move, he’s standing still, looming a few meters away, awaiting Draven’s next move. “I _know_ you’re stronger than this.”

_Do you?_ Draven wonders. They’ve barely seen one another these days. Darius never comes to his shows either, seeing it as a waste of time. Darius dismissed him from his warband all those years ago. Draven’s been nothing but a disappointment his entire life to the man. How can he say that, with such certainty? "How would you know?!" Draven shouts back, bitterness from these years finally bubbling to the surface. His words taste like bile in his throat as he spits them out.

Darius doesn't answer, and instead he lunges forward again, swinging his axe and forcing Draven onto the defensive. Draven needs space, medium distance is his specialty, but Darius isn't going to give that to him. Draven blocks Darius's blow with his axe, but before he can try to get some distance a boot collides with his chest, knocking the wind out of him as once again he's sent staggering backwards. "Stop cowering and fight me!" Darius roars as he grabs Draven by his coat and tosses him like a ragdoll across the arena. His body rolls the sand, the sound of his heart beat thrums in his ears against the roars of the crowd. He can hear them chanting _Finish him! Finish him!_

Draven looks up and sees Darius approaching him ever so slowly. "Get up." He commands, and for a moment he sees emotion flash across his brother's face. Desperation? Fear? But why? "I said get _up_ !" He moves to bring his axe down, like an arching guillotine, towards Draven's exposed chest. Adrenaline takes over, as cold fear grips him and spurs him onward. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want _this_ to be his fate. He throws both of his axes, one collides into Darius's axe and staggers him, the other flies past Darius but takes a chunk of his shoulder on the way. The rags he's wearing bloom a bright crimson as they soak with his blood, and he howls in pain.

The sound cuts through Draven deeper than Darius's axe ever could, but his body is moving on it's own now, propelled now on pure adrenaline. He's on his feet, racing to grab one of his axes from the ground, but the closest is beside Darius's feet. He lunges for it, and it leaves himself open, and this time Darius is willing to capitalize on it. He lifts his axe above his head, and it's about to come crashing down atop Draven. He _has_ to do something. _Quick_. Or this is his end.

His fingers wrap around the axe and he whips it around, tossing it upwards as Darius brings his own axe down. It feels like everything is happening in slow motion as Draven feels his heart stop, realizing he was too slow, Darius was too fast, this is where he will surely be cut down.

But the steel never meets his skin. The axe collides with the dirt next to him. He _missed?_ When Draven was so _vulnerable?_ Darius is looming over Draven still, but with an axe embedded in his chest. Blood blossoms from his chest, as Darius sputters in pain. "Darius?" Draven calls out in disbelief, his voice cracking. Darius's body begins to collapse on top of him, wilting as his legs give out from the pain. Draven catches him in his arms and slowly lowers him to the ground. He can hear his brother choking on his own blood as it pools in his mouth. "No no no no." Draven chatters on as he settles the man gently into the dirt. "Hey this wasn't supposed to happen. Darius what the fuck this wasn't supposed to be how this ended!" Draven cries out, gripping his brother's shoulders as the reality sinks in. Darius is _dying._ Darius is dying because of _him._

Darius stares up into Draven's face, his mouth curling into a smile. A rare sight from his usually cold and calculating brother. So why is he smiling _now?_ Of all the times? Darius's hand shakily reaches up and squeezes his shoulder tightly. It shoots a pang of guilt through Draven and he shudders. "Remember our promise?" Draven can see how much it pains Darius to speak, yet he does while Draven is the one who’s once again speechless. All he can manage in response is a shaky nod. “Good.”

Darius’s hand slides down Draven’s arm, a trail of his own blood smearing onto Draven’s clothes as the life slips from him. His eyes go glossy. He breathes his last breath and he’s gone. 

Around him the crowd is roaring. They’re all cheering louder than he’s ever heard them before. It’s deafening. Overwhelming. Usually Draven would gloat and bask in the attention. Instead he ignores it. He kneels in the dirt, clutching the body of his brother. 

It shouldn’t be his name they’re chanting right now. It should be Darius’s. 

* * *

Draven isn't sure how many days go by, how long he's been at the tavern that day, or if he even went home last night. It's been a blur of him going from his house to the bar and drinking until he stumbles back to his house. He barely eats. But if he doesn't drink the dreams are worse and he can't sleep. So he drowns in the drink. He swallows the bitter liquid like it's air, like his survival depends on it. Until the fire in his stomach numbs the ice in his veins, making his mind fuzzy and he feels nothing. 

That bar is where he is one particularly rainy night, staring into a mug of ale as the crowd is a chatter of white noise behind him. He doesn't even notice someone sliding into the bar stool by his side, something that had rarely happened since his last show. He used to be the life of the bar, but now visitors give him a wide berth.

"This is a familiar sight. How long has it been since last I found you drowning your sorrows in drink?" A deep velvety voice asks beside him. Draven doesn't need to look to recognize the grand general. Jericho Swain is seated beside him, his dark eyes boring into him. Draven tries to ignore him. He can feel the flames of rage being stoked by his presence alone. He tries to douse it with more alcohol as he downs more of the bitter liquid, trying to find that numbness he had been feeling until now.

"The cold shoulder? Really Draven? Is that anyway to greet the man who just paid your tab from this past week?"

"I didn't ask you to do that." Draven mumbles into his mug.

"No. But if I hadn't the very nice barkeep would have sent mercenaries after you looking for coin I know you've drank through. You haven't done a show in months and this bar's ale isn't the cheap kind." 

Draven hums finally turning to Swain with curiosity, an eyebrow raised as he looks the general up and down. His face is guarded, betraying nothing as his deep brown eyes meet Draven's own green ones. "Why do you care what end I meet? Debt collector's knife or the bottom of the drink makes no difference to me."

"I consider you my friend, Draven."

"Friend?" He scoffs, taking another swig of the ale. It's not doing the job he thought it would, it's only adding fuel to his anger. But maybe that's a good thing. If he pushes Swain enough maybe he'll do the job Draven is too cowardly to do himself. "What kind of person pits his friend against their brother in a fight to the death?"

Swain's eyebrows knit together into a frown. The question lingers in the air as his jaw clenches at the tone. He's annoyed at Draven's brashness. "I would not have tasked you with such a job if I didn't think you could handle it." Images of the battle reignite in Draven's mind. Darius, an axe embedded in his chest as Draven realizes what wrong he has wrought flashes by. Swain's voice grounds him back in reality. "He betrayed Noxus. He betrayed _us._ His punishment was just."

" _He_ should be here." Draven says.

"And he's not because he was weak." Swain counters. "At the end of the day he didn't have what it takes to be The Hand of Noxus. He couldn't do what must be done-”

A mug of ale whizzes past Swain’s head, just barely missing him and colliding with the wall behind him. Swain seems unfazed, he didn’t even move when Draven turned his drink into a projectile. “Don’t talk about him like that.” Draven’s voice is cracking with the rage he’s feeling at the general.

“I am simply stating facts, Draven.” 

Draven _knows_ he’s wrong. Darius isn’t here because he’s _weak._ No. Darius was stronger than any man. He walked into his own death, unblinking and unafraid. And if Draven had even a drop of his bravery he wouldn’t be here, waiting around to die a cowards’ death of alcohol poisoning. Draven’s the coward, the weakling. He can’t even muster the words to argue with Swain. All of his arguments die in his throat as he just grits his teeth and glowers at him.

Swain waits momentarily for the retort that never comes before sighing softly. “When you’re ready to get back to work, you know where to find me.” He stands up, leaving a handful of coins for Draven’s tab, and makes his leave.

Draven sits there, the bar has gone silent and they’re all staring at him, talking amongst themselves in hushed whispers. Probably commenting on his disgraceful state. And they’re right too. Draven can’t even follow his brother’s one request of him. To carry on. If he wasn’t such a shitty brother he’d at least put in the effort to _try_ to live up to his brother’s last wish.

“Sir? Would you like another glass?” The bartender interrupts his thoughts. Draven hesitates, part of him desperately wants to go back to feeling nothing except the numbness provided by the alcohol. The temptation is hard to resist. To go back to not thinking. Not feeling. It’s easier that way.

Draven shakes his head, swallowing the lump that’s formed in his throat and sliding off the bar stool. “Not tonight.” And hopefully not anymore nights.

**Author's Note:**

> This was probably the most angsty thing I've ever written haha it was a super fun thing to explore a hypothetical bad end for these characters. Tried to leave the ending a little open ended with a teensy bit of hope, but up to y'all how you interpret that. Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
